A clang,
a tang,
something to clamp
and a couple of nice clacks.
A thump,
a chug and then
he called his boy
as he left the garage.
In his mind a pedal,
a new carburator
for the bourgeoisie,
while his boy drove the machine.
When the motor-tricycle passed by
everyone was shocked and so surprised,
all the children stared with big big eyes
while their parents’ mouths were open wide.
And I
wrap my head
in a stray
and lazy winter day.
Two lines, a melody,
a slice of lemon
in my cup of tea
and, again, a memory.
All the cats and dogs ran everywhere,
the barber ruined a poor client’s hair
and the baker shop boy, by the square,
threw his basket of bread in the air.
And there was, as usual, someone who crabbed
but a German guy thought it was fab
and the king rushed there just to say “Hi”
and a man looked at his son and smiled.
(I will remember
forever that day,
though I was so far away
and time made rain
on a forgotten lane
pouring rain.
Is it bread that’s raining?)